


Tips

by iskra667



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-27 23:32:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iskra667/pseuds/iskra667
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Future Fic: Established Puckurt in New york after graduation. Kurt goes to College and sings in a gay piano-bar at night, where Santana is his female co-star. Puck is the muscle guy at the door, along with various jobs with varying degrees of legality, and brings the Jewish-guy-with-guitar experience to the cafés of Brooklyn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tips

 

  
_I often stop and wonder, why I appeal to men_   
  
Kurt sang coyly, his innocent eyes begging the fifty-something man on whose lap he was currently sitting for an honest-to-God answer. The man leered and pinched his bum too hard and Kurt gathered all his willpower not to slap him. 

 

That was part of the game, sitting on customers' laps and flirting with them. Most of them were middle-aged family men on a business trip to the Big City. They came to the bar, darting shameful glances all around, as though imagining that their neighbors from Kansas city or Salt Lake city had followed them all the way there. After a few beers or scotches, reassured of the anonymity of the Metropolis, they got teary, dreaming of of a life that could have been theirs if-only, and let Kurt romance them a little while. He sat on their laps, sang a few flirty lines. They patted his bum gently, with a shy, insecure smile and, if they tipped more than a twenty, he gave them a chaste closed-mouth kiss and went on his way to repeat the game with someone new. Then, they sipped enough liquid courage to gather the guts to run to the cruising bar a few blocks down, picked up a rent-boy in the backroom and went off to do the nasty in their company-paid hotel room. The morning after, they got a serious case of guilt-trip, maxed out their Amex on an overpriced gift at Tiffany's and went back to their wives with their tail between their legs. Everyone was a winner. There was usually no problem with customers. They understood the concept of 'piano-bar' and came here for a bit of old-fashioned romance. When they were after serious action, they knew how to skip directly to the strip-joint down the road, or the leather-bar.

 

Not this guy apparently, who was currently busying clumsy, obnoxious fingers at Kurt's zipper. If he broke the thing, Kurt swore to hell he would make him regret it. Judging from the guy's dilated pupils, he was also past the state where one of Kurt's icy glares could do the trick. And that was saying something because, though he was small and slender, Kurt knew he could look fucking scary when he wanted to. But this called for more drastic measures.

 

He leaned down, pretending to flirt back, and caressed the rather unimpressive bulge in the man's trousers.

 

'Oh' he exclaimed, blushing demurely 'I wonder how you managed to sneak such weapons past the security guard.' It sounded so cheesy he almost felt ashamed of himself, but a really good performer knew how to sink to their audience's level. It worked. The man preened, clearly flattered, and squeezed Kurt back.

'Man's a dimwit.' he snorted drunkenly.

 

Kurt whispered silkily to his ear.

 

'Oh? I rather think he did not consider it much of a threat. Last time someone tried to make a move on me, he sent his mate from Temple after them. His Russian mate. With sexy tattoos all over his hands. I like tattoos. Do you have tattoos?' he finished flirtatiously.

 

But the drunken guy was now sweating and darting his eyes randomly. He might be a small town looser, but he watched enough crime drama on TV to know what a Russian guy with tattoos meant. His hands flew off Kurt and he held them out in plain view.

 

'I... I... I have laundry to do!' he blurted lamely.

 

Kurt's mouth dropped in a disappointed pout.

 

'You leaving already? But I had just started singing to you?'

 

The guy panicked. Fuck! First time in New York in 6 years! Just wanted to get laid, honest! And he had to stick his stupid paws of the toy-boy of some Russian mafia bigwig! Fuck! He had a wife, a mortgage, 2 sons, a granddaughter and no life insurance. Fuck! He took from his pocket the roll of bills he kept for the rent-boy later and handed it to Kurt.

 

'Here!' he gasped 'You have a lovely voice! You're lovely! He's a lucky guy!' Shit! Shit! Was that last line too much? Did he now have a contract on a his brainless head? He almost knocked Kurt off his lap in his haste to get up and ran to the door, huffing and panting.

 

Kurt sat on the now vacated chair and crossed his legs primly at the knee. He unrolled the bills, counted them and smelled them. He could never get tired of this smell. In all truth, the paper smelled of sweat, dust and stale beer, but to him, it was the smell of success. Of freedom. The smell of his grand fuck-you-world. He always knew he would make it big in the city.

 

He safely put the money away in his most inaccessible zipped pocket and danced his way to a table of Japanese businessmen. They looked just the right amount of drunk. Drunk enough to tip generously, but not drunk enough to be oblivious to what was going on on stage. Or on their laps.

 

***

 

Puck hopped from one feet to the other on the pavement. He was bored out of his mind and freezing his balls off.

 

The good thing of manning the door at a piano-bar was that he was virtually paid doing nothing. Drawback was that it was boring as shit. Sometimes, he thought of taking another gig at the leather-bar down the street, where he could let off steam kicking some serious ass. Then he remembered his short time in juvie. He had not exactly been top-dog there. He hated to admit it, but maybe Puckzilla was a softie. Better stick to the clientele of this lame-ass joint. Old faded queens coming to moon over their long lost golden years. Prissy young guys in overpriced vintage rags, a bit like that preppy dork Kurt had dated for a while. A few dykes who pulled the Johnny Cash look tons better than he did. Now that really pissed his off, people stealing his badass act like this, and beating him at it. He would have liked to kick their asses, but then his Mom would have screamed at him, and that was fucking scary. Puckzilla knew better than to kick girls' asses, even Gentile girls' asses. Sometimes, one of those dykes would ask him where he bought his combat boots and they would chat for a bit, commiserating about why was it so fucking hard to find plain, classy black dress shirts anywhere, why did everything had to have so many frills, or such crazy colors, and why the fuck did designers thought it was their job to drive sensible people out of their minds? Then the girl would wave at him and go inside for her night out and he would think how funny it was that he, Noah Puckerman, Head Stud In Charge at McKinley High was now swapping fashion tips with the ladies. Ballsy ladies, but ladies nonetheless. Beside, Puck had always had a thing for ballsy ladies, even back in those years when he played for the other team. But if he told Kurt, Kurt would either mock him, or sulk at him for stealing his fashion-adviser act, so he didn't.

 

Instead, he stood in the street, freezing his balls off, alone. And thought of his paycheck.

 

'Hey, Puckerman!' came a superior drawl.

 

Santana shook her hair out of the elaborate chignon she wore on stage, shivering in her red silk dress.

 

Puck was about to offer her his leather jacket. He was, after all, a gentleman. But she fumbled with her coat, dropping her bag on the pavement so she could put it on.

 

'Heading home already?'

 

'Yeah.' she drawled vaguely. 'My set's finished, and the hell if I'm putting overtime with those crappy tips.'

 

'Slow night?' Puck asked sympathetically.

 

'Well, not many customers on my team.' she sighed. 'And it's a known socioeconomic fact that men have more disposable income to waste than women.'

 

To prove her point, she leaned towards Puck and conspiratorially exposed her cleavage. Puck need not be encouraged twice to take a look. He may have been converted to the delights of tight asses, but hot was hot, and Santana had a nice pair. She could, with what she had forked out for them. Or rather what her Dad had forked for them. Which could be considered lucky since two meager 10-dollar notes currently battled in her red and black lace bra. Puck grimaced in support.

 

Santana pulled herself back together with an alluring toss of her hair.

 

'Which is why I also sing at that other club. A job for pick-ups, a job for tips, the best of both worlds. Amen.' she declared smugly.

 

'Keep your claws off my man, Satan!' came a ferocious hiss from the door.

 

'What the fuck would I do with him now that I've tasted pussy?' Santana snorted 'Soft skin, no gross body hair, no smell of stale sweat, and this sweet taste like caramel and blood altogether...'

 

'La La La!!!' Kurt sang loudly, covering his ears with his hands, and dancing awkwardly on the pavement.

 

Santana cackled evilly.

 

'Besides, we ladies don't need lubricant' she attacked again once Kurt had stopped singing off-key. 'I thought you of all people would get all prissy about sticking petroleum jelly up your ass. You know it's made of old plastic bags, right?'

 

'Organic aloe-vera water-based lube.' Kurt sighed fastidiously with his trademark eye-roll that meant    
  
_how-can-everyone-be-such-brainless-unsophisticated-plebs-and-not-drop-dead-like-zombies-I-really-wonder._   
  
  
Puck knew the one. Puck was fluent at Kurt's rolled eye and raised eyebrow language and knew most of its subtleties.   


 

'However fascinating your sexual exploits might be... to desperate housewives and frustrated straight guys...' Kurt said icily 'I came to talk business.'

 

'You.' He pointed at her and Santana raised a questioning eyebrow.

 

'Me.' He pointed at himself.

 

'My strap-on?' Santana suggested hopefully.

 

  
'Duet!' Kurt hissed. 'Though I'm really flattered by your other offer, I have certain standards. I like my    
  
  
_men_   
  
  
sweet and docile.' He patted at Puck's arm condescendingly and kissed him on the cheek. Puck just stared at him with an amused smile, in his    
  
  
_I'm-a-manly-stud-and-so-above-such-lady-bitchiness_   
  
  
cool manner.   


 

'You, Satan, would only be a pain in the ass!' He blushed furiously when he realized the unintentional suggestiveness of his words, and Santana let out a lewd snort that said 'Stung by your own viper's tongue, bitch!'.

 

'Duet!' Kurt repeated, clearing his throat loudly. 'Nancy and Lee. Camp classic. Postmodern ironic flavor.'

 

'You do have an impressive collection of kinky boots.' Santana approved when she managed to stop snickering. 'Why not 'Down from Dover'? I'd really like to sing and brag about sticking my strap-on somewhere inappropriate.'

 

'And unprotected! You're such a small-town cad cliché. No, I was thinking of something a little classier, suggestive in a suitably literary way.'

  
'And    
  
  
_not_   
  
  
reminding the customers of their breeding habits back home. That's bad for business.' He shot her one of his glares that expressed the full extent of his    
  
  
_ennui_   
  
  
at always being the brains of their operation.   


 

'Whatever! You'll play coy, and I'll play cad and they'll pay tips! Why change a winning act?''

 

They high-fived each other, grinning.

 

'Now, boys, I must be on my way to more delightful company. No offense meant. Or maybe yes.' She gave them a mysterious femme fatale smile and walked gracefully down the street.

 

'Bye Satan! Beware of salt circles!' Kurt called after her, and she raised a middle finger in reply.

 

Kurt turned to Puck, beaming. He looked so much younger when he stopped bitching, even just five minutes. Maybe he was a little tipsy too. Not that he was much of a drinker, but he didn't say no when admiring patrons bought him fancy drinks they could hardly afford on their student loans and scrapped incomes. Though Puck knew they couldn't complain, he scored premium vodka from that Russian guy at Temple, and didn't have to resort to cheap liquor like most college students. Jewishness seriously kicked ass.

 

Kurt stood on tiptoe to kiss his lips, and Puck grabbed his ass and the top of his back to keep him steady. They kissed softly as customers started to file out of the joint, and when a group of Japanese businessmen made their way out, Kurt threw a leg around Puck's hip and tipped backward, deepening the kiss and moaning wantonly. Puck grabbed him firmly to stop them from falling over and responded to the kiss, sucking eagerly on Kurt's offered tongue, but he kept his guard up, eying the guys that kept starring at them, yammering away excitedly.

 

Kurt winked at them.

 

'Those guys gave you shit? Want Puckzilla to kick their asses?' Puck offered eagerly. He was cold, and there was nothing like grabbing some looser by their collar and throwing them around to make him feel better. Beside, Kurt got off on the occasional show of badassness, and Puck was always up to scoring points.

 

'No. No. Those were gentlemen.' Kurt replied coyly, straightening the collar of Puck's black shirt. 'Kinky gentlemen.' He added with a knowing smile. 'They really admired my bondage kilt!' Now he had a wide childish grin, as though mighty pleased to find a group of people sophisticated enough to appreciate his avant-garde fashion sense.

 

Kurt batted his eyelashes demurely, turned over and guided Puck's hand to the butt-flap of his kilt. Puck's jaw dropped when Kurt made him touch him    
  
_right there_   
  
, in the street, OK, in front of a closing bar with an entirely sympathetic crowd filing out, but still, in the goddamn street. But Kurt, thankfully, was not that mad, and only guided his hand to a few notes that were trapped    
  
_down there_   
  
  
, then nudged him away and closed the flap.   


 

Puck stared wide-eyed at the few fifties in his hand, but Kurt just sighed 'Tourists!' with a coquettish shrug.

 

Puck automatically started to put the money away, when Kurt hissed furiously at him 'Noah Puckerman! What do you think you are? My pimp?'

 

'You made me fish them out!' Puck handed back the notes, confused.

 

'To amuse you.' Kurt explained, somewhat softened, as he put the notes away in his jacket. 'Retail therapy. Saturday. Vintage shops. I've earned it. I'll share my finds with you.' he purred flirtatiously, and Puck found himself grow insanely hard. Damn, only Kurt could make some vintage Dior Homme or crap sound like a peepshow.

 

'Sure you will...' Puck flirted back, pulling him close and ghosting his lips over his brow.

 

'Thought it was your half of rent money, is all.' He shrugged casually, like none of this mattered one bit. As though they were not penniless students and would-be artists, lost in the Big City with nothing but their country boys dreams to keep them afloat.

 

Kurt kissed his jaw, then pulled away to fight with his many zippers again. He took the roll out from his secret pocket. 'Here, put it away, I don't want those pockets to sag.' he offered casually.

 

Puck whistled, impressed. 'And Santana complained this was a slow night!'

 

'Well, that one was no gentleman.' Kurt commented dryly. 'I had to scare him away with stories of your tattooed Russian friend. The Frightful Jewish Connection.'

 

'You nuts, right?' Puck panicked 'This is New York, not Lima! You can't go around telling stuff like this!' Even if is was all bullshit. The guy just had some lame-ass punk tattoos. But what if Kurt pulled such stories to the wrong person, who took him seriously?

 

'Relax, he was just a small-town looser. Like us.'

 

'You could go to jail.'

 

'Only if you looked that panicked!' Kurt replied icily. 'Then, yes, they might take it seriously.'

 

Puck somewhat relaxed. This was all drunken talk after all. God only knew all the nonsense and bragging threats that had been uttered in all the joints of this city.

 

'If we went to jail, I'd make you my bitch.' Puck offered, with a suggestive wiggle of eyebrows.

 

  
'If    
  
  
_I_   
  
  
went to jail because of    
  
  
_your_   
  
  
pathetically low panic threshold and    
  
  
_your_   
  
  
complete lack of self-control, Noah Puckerman, mark my words!    
  
  
_I_   
  
  
'd make    
  
  
_you_   
  
  
my bitch!'   


 

'You'd have the biggest stud as your bitch, Hummel!' Puck preened, flexing his pectorals.

 

'I'd totally rule the place!' Kurt beamed, clearly excited about his new career prospect as a fierce crime lord. 'I'd make contact with the Chinese, start a business smuggling McQueen counterfeits. Quality McQueen counterfeits! None of those poly-blends or uneven hems! I really don't think that would be spitting on his grave! Not after this travesty the brand has become... It would be more like, honoring his spirit and keeping his heritage alive!...'

 

Kurt ranted on for a while as they walked home, hand in hand, Puck content to just listen to the melodic lull of his voice, knowing better than to try and make any sense of it, until they both fell into this comfortable silence of people who knew each other too well for words.

 


End file.
